


Stuck in the Void with You

by Flatfootmonster



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2020-10-09 21:37:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20516837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flatfootmonster/pseuds/Flatfootmonster
Summary: "I don’t have long."The words travel through me, I shiver. My throat is tight again but it’s not for myself.“What do you need to do?” I ask quietly.





	1. A Bridge

The raindrops whizz past my head, hurling towards the abyss that’s beneath my feet. I watch them, tiny shards of hope that glint until the darkness takes them—when they shatter against rock or water. The river that runs a course here isn’t deep enough to cushion a fall. But that's the point. 

There’s no other place to go. I have no home now. Honestly? It was falling apart before I’d even started on the foundations. I thought I could outrun it all—I thought I could pretend; play a fine role in the show I made of life. But it’s caught up with me. It was only ever a matter of time because lies unravel on their own. The tighter you grip to the threads holding the story together, the more faults and fissures appear in the script. The last thing left is a final bow. The only audience left, after the tales and deceit and hurt, are unblinking eyes of the uncaring universe, set a tar black sky. 

I would have changed course, I  _ would _ have been honest, but the opportunity never came up. My life has been little more than a twig swept along with the current, way down below me—no agency, no will, no integrity. And  _ this _ is the destination—the bridge, this fall, an end. I’ve been a coward, the short distance to oblivion really is all I deserve. There’s nothing left and I’ve wasted so much life. I don’t mean my own—that I chose to waste, the others didn’t have a choice. I took that away. 

How much different would the world look if I hadn’t driven everyone to this point? Would I still have someone that called me Papa? It doesn’t matter anyway, she deserves more than me. They all do. I failed at being a father, son, husband, friend, lover, employee… you name it, I fucked it up. 

They will be better with me gone. The only other option would be that I hadn’t been born, unfortunately I can’t undo that mistake. 

I push my palms to the cold and rough concrete, shifting my weight to the edge. Frigid air catches in my lungs, it hurts, but that may be because my throat is raw from grief. The rain made it impossible to distinguish between the saltwater and fresh streaming down my face—falling generously from the clouds. I can only inch so far, I really should have committed to this thirty minutes ago. 

Like I said: coward. 

Using that last word as a full stop, I pull quietness around me like a cloak—my thoughts stall in their tracks. There’s a serenity in this moment, a peace having conviction and direction in one decision I have made in my life. Everything begins to blur in to a warm acceptance. I begin to fade in this world, the universe is absorbing me. One last inhale and my arms tense to do their final job. I close my eyes, leaning forward… 

But there’s something—a noise. I’m probably looking for excuses, yet the sound reaches me again; a ghostly finger, fumbling at the outer limits of my imploding life. It’s just enough to inflict hesitation. The world buzzes in confusion, the sounds of obscurity in the dead of night are suddenly much too loud. Blood throbs through me like my heart is a funeral drum, desperate for the march to proceed, though my fingers tighten and curl around the jagged edge of the bridge in subconscious protest. Time suspends itself impatiently. A sharp sting bleeds into my mind before I realise I’m biting down on my lower lip.

_ There _ . 

It’s nearer now, and despite my eyes being closed I can tell it’s bare feet on tarmac. In the last moments of life I’ve been given superpowers to see the world with a sixth sense. There’s someone close—behind me, at the rail. I think I can feel their pulse travelling from where they stand, because the air vibrates around me.

What do I do?

If it was someone I knew they would have seen my car, parked on one roadside. The door and lights must still be on because I have no memory of doing much more than pulling up the handbrake. Surely they would have yelled if they’d come this far. But noone is going to come looking for me—that’s a reality. Whoever this is didn’t drive because no cars have passed nearby, it’s the reason this spot came to mind when I drove out of the city. It’s so quiet out here you’d hear a bicycle in the next valley. 

Their mouth opens, lips part, but nothing comes. 

A flicker of life sparks; curiosity forces me to turn my head, neck arching to peer at whoever has decided to witness this specific moment. Should I be angry at the intrusion? Embarrassed? Fear? Remorse? But nothing cuts through my fogged senses except that lick of intrigue. 

I catch him. It’s hard to discern anything in the twilight but he’s tall and gaunt, long greasy hair falling around his face and his eyes are wide as the moon. He freezes when my gaze lands. If the barrier wasn’t between us I’m sure I'd see him balancing on the balls of his feet, about to turn back on this decision, to do what exactly? I don’t know. Yet one hand is extended towards the rail that runs along the top of the wall, separating the road from the fall. 

He makes the decision, that hovering palm landing on the wet metal rail as another step is taken, the gap between us dwindling, his bare feet brushing over the surface of the road. What does he want?

“Hi.”

I blink at the simple word, so gently said that I’m not sure that I imagined it. Is this man even there? Maybe I jumped already and this is another dimension. The moonlight glows stronger, highlighting the stranger with an aura. This could be a spectre. He casts his gaze down into the void beneath the bridge, the ones my feet are dipping into. 

“Can I join you?” 

Air shudders out of my body, the inhale I ‘d been holding finally breaking free. I’m trembling. I should have done it already.  _ Join me? _ What does that mean?

“OK,” I croak. It’s automatic, I respond like he just asked for the seat next to me on a train. And, just as I consider that this might be one bizarre dream, he moves. Smooth motion, cotton sliding against cotton, metal, and concrete. One bare foot is on this side of the divide, then the other. The movements are nothing less than graceful. Then he’s sat by me, feet dangling just a little lower than mine. 

My brain begins to work its way through the fog. He’s bare foot, simple blue pajamas-like trousers cover his legs, matched by a plain tunic of the same colour—it looks like a hospital gown. The only other thing he has on is a plain white dressing gown and a band around his wrist that I’m sure will have his name and date of birth printed on it. Now it makes sense. 

Peace settles between us, it’s different from the calm I felt when I thought I was alone, but I can’t define that change. His gaze is still cast down but my eyes are glued to his face. How could two people collide in this way? The solace that engulfs us, at this mirrored point in both of our foreign lives, feels more understanding and accepting than I’ve ever experienced. Perhaps it’s because this choice isn’t being questioned in a scandalized voice, it’s simply acknowledged with no judgment. Or maybe it’s an interrupted death that provides this sensation.

“I wasn’t expecting a companion,” he mutters and grins to himself like something in this is amusing. Maybe it is. The moonlight exaggerates the expression making it sardonic, like an old italian theatre mask; pain disguised by a smile.

It hurts when I swallow, trying to work moisture into my mouth. I wasn’t expecting to speak with anyone again, after I drove off cursing at a woman who didn’t deserve to live in a house crafted by lies, didn’t deserve to mother the child of a coward.

“Me neither.” Nervous laughter chases the words. 

A long sigh rattles from his lungs before he speaks again. “How long have you been here?”

I shrug. This is absurd and at the same time it’s not. “I don’t know.” 

“Long enough to get soaked through. You wanna catch pneumonia before you go out?”

My grunted laughter isn’t nervous now. “I guess it doesn't matter too much.”

“I suppose not.” 

The rain stopped, though I’m not sure when exactly. As the realisation hits, my heart lurches, reacting like I missed the last train, and the doors have slammed shut before my face. I stumble to a halt ten seconds too late; life just took a turn and my entire body seems to know. 

“I don’t have long.” It’s a quiet admission that I’m not entirely sure I was meant to hear. 

I’m still staring at the side of his face, unable to look away. “What do you mean?”

He turns, eyes meeting mine and the solace warms despite unspoken ghosts and nightmares dancing in the space between us. “They’ll know I’m gone. They know where to look.”

I nod once but curiosity has become a small bonfire. “Who?”

Shaking his head, he returns to the study of the nothingness that drew us both here. The corners of his mouth twitch and pull over sentences that were fashioned and then refused. Finally an answer is approved. 

“I’m on suicide watch.” 

“Oh.” It’s a weak response but I’m trying not to fan the flames of the fire. I think it’s too late for that now. This person crossed my path right here and now and I feel like that must mean something. “Why?”

He’s grinning again, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. It was a stupid question—we both know it, and it won’t be an easy answer, but there it is. 

“Life? Why are  _ you _ here?” he throws right back.

“Same, I guess.” I pull my focus away from him. Disappointment makes itself knows; I wanted to know more. 

A heavier sigh leaves my companion and my ears prick up. “It’s just—” Another sigh breaks his flow of words—he’s frustrated. “I’m  _ tired _ . I spent my life being told what to do, or what I should feel. It was always too much hassle trying to tell them I didn’t agree. If I did that they would always blame my disorder—” his eyes flicker to me again. “I have bipolar. And now I’m empty, there’s nothing left. I can’t watch them pretend they  _ want _ to be constantly watching me anymore.” He splutters an empty laugh, it doesn’t need any help to make it sardonic. “They should be free of this— _ me _ .” There's a heartbeat of twilight before he repeats, " _ I'm tired _ ." The stressed words carry the weight of the world. he doesn't need to elaborate—I get it somehow. 

I nod again. I don’t know much about bipolar apart from my best friend’s mum has it. Maybe it’s different from person to person because I’m sure she never ended up on suicide watch. Or she did and I never knew about it. Either way, I’m no expert here. 

“So… you didn’t tell people how you felt? Or what you want?” 

He leans back against the barrier like we’re not suspended hundreds of feet above death. How many times has he tried to take his life to be as casual as a cat on this ledge?

“You’re full of questions for a dead man.” There’s a smirk. I must genuinely entertain him. That’s a first, well for a long while it is.

“No—well,  _ yeah _ . I suppose I can relate.”

His eyes are on the side of my face now, but I’m not staring at my feet, I’m counting his toes. Barefoot seems the better way to do this. He was fiddling with the band on his wrist and I wrestle down the urge to seek out and read the print on it. What good are names up here? 

“I guess most people that end up here feel the same way.”

“True.”

The solace expands like my chest. I feel lighter. The universe opens up, spilling its secrets like the two lost souls down here are doing. I don’t think I've ever seen so many stars before. Their glinting reflects in the slither of water, way down there, and I observe them from the upside down—too much of a coward to look the life dead in the eye.

“I just can’t do it anymore—live for other people's vision of me and have them revolve around me. But I don’t know how to live for myself. I don’t even know if there's enough of  _ myself _ left to shape a life that will make me...  _ happy _ .” The last words twists in his mouth; a foreign concept met with derision. Years and years spent being unfaithful to yourself means you can’t truly know happiness. I get that. “ _ Who am I _ ?” The rhetoric is posed to the bleakness alone. 

I chew my lip. It would be meaningless and ridiculous to try and tell him, a stranger, who he is. But I don’t think anyone can be in a position to tell any other human who they are or are not. All we can do is give people space to evolve. 

There is one thing that I latch on to. “But you’re not sure?” That gains me a frown, and with the dim ghostly light he looks like an unimpressed God. 

“ _ What _ ?”

“You said you don’t know if there is enough of you left.” The expression sours; he knows where I’m going. “You don’t want to see if there is?”

His head is shaking. I lose eye contact. “Are you a fucking councillor or some shit? Do they post you out here to catch people who want to die—in peace—and fuck them off with questions they’ve heard a fucking million times before?” Scrubbing at his eyes, my companion closes in on himself and this is definitely shame—his and mine. Heat floods my skin, from hairline to fingertips. 

“I’m sorry. I’m… I don’t know what I’m doing." I turn away. "I’m a coward," I admit my own rhetoric. And I  _ am _ a coward for buying time at someone else’s expense. He wouldn't even have known I was here if I'd just done this as soon as I crossed the barrier. Why does that thought twist my stomach with unease? 

Head thudding against the concrete at my back I decide that maybe you can relax up here. Besides, in this predicament, what’s the worst that can happen?

There’s a pause. I feel him unfurl once more, there’s something in this sixth sense that allows me to visualise the vertebrae in his back softening, his shoulders dropping, his hands falling to his lap—all with my eyes closed because I can’t look the universe in the eye. 

“Why are you a coward?”

I guess it's quid pro quo, which is fair enough, and I may as well be fair to the last person I talk to in this existence considering the last conversation I had. Perhaps now there’s some brownie points to be earned with the God my mum loves so much. 

“I’ve spent my whole life lying to everyone. Being someone I’m not. But I—” I lick my lips. This is the difference between us, and it suddenly makes me feel like a fraud. “I know who I want to be— _ wanted _ to be.” 

“Who?” He says it in that hushed but hurried way, like the answer is some important key. I don’t think it will help his problems. But, again, I’m no expert here. 

“I have a wife, a kid, a home, the perfect job— _ had, _ I should say.” It’s all gone now, lies exploding in the most public way imaginable. Sometimes you pick the wrong office temp to fuck around with, you mutter too much into the pillow, then it ends because they want more. Now there’s enough mortification to be passed around several times. I gave someone ammunition and they used it to obliterate my world. “But I’m gay. I’ve been cheating for years— _ flings.  _ Just flings _ . _ ” I say like it makes any difference. They were never anything meaningful that could possibly justify my actions, just quick sordid affairs. The memories make my skin crawl. “And now everyone knows it’s over; she’s going to take my daughter away; I lost my job—” 

I stop and wait. This was the first time I’ve said those words; admitting this part of me that’s kept one foot planted in deceit, kept a film of lies tainting everything I am. Besides, it doesn’t matter what I’ve lost. I’ll be gone soon and everyone will be the better for it. 

And yet lightening hasn't struck me down… 

“That’s it?”

It’s my turn to frown at him. “ _ What _ ?”

“You’re gay and it caught up with you. You think you’re the first person that’s been through that?”

I snort in shock. How can  _ he _ tell  _ me _ that? Minimising my worst fears in a simple fucking sentence. “It’s not that simple. I can’t pay people back the years I’ve wasted. This," I gesture to where our feet dangle, "is the least I can do.”

“But this is the worst part—the lowest point.”

“ _ Exactly _ .”

He huffs impatiently, like I’m not catching the point he's throwing easily in my direction. “So, you’re sure there’s no up from here? Now you finally have honesty, there won't be a path to  _ happiness _ ?” The word is twisted again, but not with derision, more just a foreign concept.

I click my tongue in vexation, resting back against the concrete once more. My arms are crossed over my chest before I know what I’m doing. I can't imagine anything past this point but pain. 

“What are you, a fucking concillor?” I throw back his sentiment. It’s meant to be a jibe, but the situation is all too real for us both. Despite the very fact we’re on the edge ourselves, we can see the silver lining in someone else’s life—a complete stranger no less.

He takes the words hard, slumping in on himself again. It’s not defeat but it’s more than frustration. From the little I know of him, I’m  _ sure _ this isn’t his first attempt. And if I wasn’t here then perhaps he would have been successful by now. Instead he’s empathising with me. Is he resentful of me now? I probably would be. 

Sudden movement from the corner of my eye forces my body to react on impulse. He moved forward and that’s all my mind processed. Arm shooting out towards him, I grab onto his wrist, palm closing around the band with the bare essentials of his life typed on them. He frowns at me and I realise he was just sitting forward, he wasn’t trying to cut the conversation abruptly short with his departure from this world. 

“Isak,” I stutter. “My name is Isak.” 

He blinks. Confusion mars his face before his lips part, something softens in him. There’s a warmth again in our solace. “Even.” 

I’m nodding like that's the correct response to being given someone’s name. “Good,” I elaborate. 

The corners of his mouth twitch again, the ghost of a smile graces me. “My name is  _ good _ ?” 

“No, I just mean— _ thanks _ . Or that it’s good to know—your name.” My sentence stops and starts, I’m not entirely sure what it is that I want to say. But whatever I’m doing the smile becomes stronger. I feel relieved. 

“ _ Good _ ,” he repeats softly, to himself. His eyes drop to where my hand is still laying on his wrist, but he doesn’t move away. And there is something that makes me reluctant to let go. I hear him swallow, the sixth sense tells me his smile was washed away with sobering thoughts. “I don’t have long.” Even looks at me now, those wide eyes are full of pain. How much pain has he kept to himself for how many years? But there’s something else. I can’t work out if it’s desperation or the scraps of a soul that’s been lost and alone for far too long. I don’t want to deny him whatever will bring him peace, despite the part of me that can see redemption in his life—like he can see it in mine. 

_ I don’t have long.  _

The words travel through me, I shiver. My throat is tight again but it’s not for myself. 

“What do you need to do?” I ask quietly. I’m betraying something by not telling him he shouldn’t do this, but he’s probably heard that a thousand times before. He looks down below us and I can hear the sound of water rushing through the ravine; it’s giving its opinion on the scenario. There’s only one thing I can offer, it’s what I came here for anyway, despite the doubt he’s planted. “Together?” I ask, surprised at how confident the offer sounds. 

Mouth dropping open, his attention envelops me; he’s taken back. Considering he seems to know the exact way people will react around him, and towards him, being surprised by someone must be a rarity. I guess it’s not something you hear everyday—or at all. Even studies my face for a long moment, I find it hard to breathe under the scrutiny. His head shakes slowly. 

“I don’t want you to go,” he murmurs, brows furrowed like he doesn’t understand the sentiment himself but it’s true. I can feel the truth in it and I have to turn away. Blinking, the tears start to fall again—slow and silent. To find a stranger that wants me to stay, and not for their own benefit considering they don’t intend to stick around much longer. Perhaps there is hope. 

“I—I don’t want you to go either.” I find the courage to say it, despite knowing he’ll probably shun the words. I’ve lived with lies long enough. If now isn’t the time for honest, when is? I won’t build up any more walls with boulders made of regret. And I  _ really _ don’t want him to go—though I don’t understand it any clearer than he does.

Instead of shutting down, I feel his chest heave and a quiet sob shudder from his chest. Whatever cards were dealt us, whatever led to the point, however we saw our lives,  _ this _ was a moment neither of us imagined would come. In our darkest time suddenly there’s something more, something lighter than we’ve known.

Somehow the words were right. His fingers found mine and now our hands are fiercely entangled. I feel, for the first time in as long as I can remember, something pushing me to show the way—to be the one to offer guidance. 

“I have my car. I can take you anywhere you want to go. That’s if you  _ want _ . We can just drive— or, or—” 

I cut off, sighing in unashamed relief as Even nods. 


	2. Third Time's A Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why did you leave your address?” 
> 
> His hand was almost to his mouth, lips open for a bite that is for a moment postponed. A soft laugh rushes from his nose, the pink in his cheeks is darker. Isak shakes his head. “I don’t—” he sighs before changing course. “Probably the same reason you came.” And with the words, he looks into me. I would bet a lot of money on that not being true, and I intend to say that, but my tongue is tied. 
> 
> “I don’t know why I came.” It’s an absolute lie.

This isn’t the first time I’ve stared at this door. It hasn’t changed. Someone left a post-it note for the mailman one time—but that was flat three, not the ground floor. 

The wood is painted yellow and flakey in places but clean; it’s not unloved. The stairs up to the door are swept clear of leaves and my imagination has made him the broom wielding culprit. There’s a buzzer for each household, four in total. The face of this house is identical—for the most part—to the others that make up this row. That’s not a bad thing, just a thing. 

Summerfield Place, from my experience, is a quiet road. 

That same revelation of peace presents itself every time I’m rooted to this spot, just like the beech trees that stand guard along the pavement, swaying slowly in autumn whispers. And, every time, all I do is observe; garner as much information as possible. It’ll take ten minutes before I find myself drawing the pad of my index finger along the edges of the buzzer box. Another minute will pass before I trace over the lettering for the ground floor flat. 

That means he has a garden. 

In the world I made up, this isn’t the house he lived in with his family but a new place he found—with a garden for his kid to run around in. I think he has just one, but we never went into detail. I don’t even know if they are a son or a daughter, not that it matters. 

I never press the button. 

Never. 

The first time, it was a man that stopped me, storming out of a house across the road. He began shouting something up at a window while the pane was slammed shut by a lacy ghost before he screeched off in a four-by-four. 

My heart was in my mouth. 

My anxiety began to boil. 

I left. 

And then I found myself here on a Saturday night. I was supposed to meet up with friends. The first bus to arrive at the stop was for this route—the number twelve. I took that as a sign. When I got here, the lights were on and I could hear the TV. Intrusion at that moment felt wrong. A young dad just getting on his feet doesn’t need some fucking weirdo turning up when his kid is there. In the world I made the kid is here every weekend. 

If I step outside of that safe bubble, I worry about how often he  _ does  _ get to see the kid. Does his ex make it hard? Even then I’m assuming it’s an ex. Maybe they got back together. Maybe he fled further down the rabbit hole. Maybe he found another bridge. The variables are in the thousands. The point is I don’t know and I’m scared to find out.

My therapist says the fear is because I  _ think  _ I imagined it all and that somehow this piece of paper that I was given, when I left the hospital, was a prank that fed my delusion. She doesn’t doubt that it happened but that doesn’t mean she thinks this—me coming here—is a good idea. Luckily there’s a confidentiality clause that limits her power.

But she’s wrong. 

I don’t doubt that it happened, but I think I embellished the memory; I made it more than what it was—when we saved each other. When I was still at the hospital that was easier to believe. I could assume he drove off and forgot I existed. But then I left, and I was given this clue, along with the possibly dangerous belongings I checked in with—you know, like shoelaces or fucking elastic. It was like they were saying:  _ Here’s another thing you could possibly self-harm with _ , _ something else we couldn’t give you while we were responsible for your life. _

He left this paper. He left a  _ route  _ to him. What does  _ that  _ mean? And where will it lead?  _ That’s _ what I’m scared of. I don’t know who he is but the person in my memories is more than human. I’m not corny enough to use the only term that I can relate to his memory but it has goddamn wings. Do I dare to cut off those innocent things and leave it earthbound with all the other fuck-ups?—myself included. 

Disappointment is a side effect of being alive. I  _ know  _ this, I accept it. Yet why am I worried about who  _ he _ is? Why do I want to keep my memories unblemished? But the pull to press the button is as strong. So I stand and waver, back and forth—just like I’m doing right now, rocking on my heels. Back and forth, like the leaves on the beech trees. 

Can I live in paralysis?

The paper crumbles as I grip it in my fist, firmly held in my coat pocket. It doesn’t have the crisp bite anymore, now it’s soft and fibrous where I’ve folded it and fingered it. Why would anyone want me following on their trail? He didn’t owe me anything. He didn’t have to go back to leave this note. Had he asked to see me? He wouldn’t have known about visitor restrictions. Yet there is nothing to say he hasn’t changed his mind since then. It’s been three months since I left that place. Five months since the bridge. Five months and three days—to be exact. That ends up being one hundred and fifty-five days in total and works out around three thousand, two hundred and twenty-four hours since we last met. That’s a lot of hours for someone to change their mind in. 

Can I stand not knowing?

My index finger is running wild again over the poignant word: ground floor. I clutch his address in my other hand like it’s a treasure map and I’ve reached the X. I’ll only keep coming back until I do this.

The buzzer is a low insistent noise, the type that makes you flinch. I’d never get used to that no matter how many times it went off. It jump-starts my heart which pounds in resistance to my actions. It wants me to run, and I’ll listen to it but not before I’ve counted down from twelve… 

_ Twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. _

The urgent morse code that’s carried along my bones vibrates, but it’s dull now—submerged in blood. The intensity dies as the countdown ends and there’s no movement from inside. Maybe in a different world something happened; in this one I’m still alone.

There. 

I’ve done it, I tried. This is an obvious sign that I wasn’t supposed to come. Or maybe I was but I was never meant to see him again. 

I turn, ignoring the regret that is left in the wake of urgency. There’s a route home, through a park and along the river. My legs ache by the time I get back; it gives me enough time to overthink pretty much every decision I've ever made. I never get the bus home, it doesn't seem right. To get to the park I take a right at the end of the road— 

Foreplanning is abandoned entirely and within an instant. My feet take root on the second step, merging into the tar coating the steps. My heart is about ready to make its escape from my stupid, slow, contrary body—live an easy life, somewhere between here and home, by the quiet river. 

At the bottom of the stairs, he stands—as still as me. There’s a tote bag over one shoulder, a french stick jutting from the lip, the rest of the contents are a mystery bulge in blue fabric. He’s wearing a blazer over a shirt tucked into suit pants. There’s no tie but he looks smart, like he found the job I hoped he would. In the world I created he’s a teacher.

I’m already playing spot the difference with the snapshot I hold from that night. In the autumn light, warmth is in the veins beneath his skin, and his hair is light—not slicked down by the rain. It’s blonde too, out here in the golden sunset. I remembered it as dark brown. But these differences aren’t necessarily bad. There’s no red around his eyes, no blue in his lips that liken him to a corpse. His cheeks are pink, not washed out.  _ This  _ is a different Isak. 

Am I a different Even?

That thought seems too loud, too jarring, too accusatory. So I smooth down my hair. There’s nothing I can do about the clothes I chose to wear, they are no different from any other day: jeans, t-shirt, jumper, and jacket—drab colours. Yet it’ll contrast with the hospital gown, that’s if he remembers.

His eyes are green in the light. 

“I don’t know if you remember—” I don't bother to voice the question fully because he’s nodding before I’m three words deep—lips parted. Shock is all that's between us. I shouldn’t have come. “I just wanted to say hi,” I add, looking down at my feet. I can leave it at that, as awkward as it might be. He’ll let me go, and this will be the grave where my curiosity for him dies. I take a step. Moving past him will be a flashpoint of embarrassment, I just have to keep going. 

“I didn’t think you’d come.” This time I take root on the fourth step. His words have the same power his presence does—they trap me in amber. 

His voice  _ is  _ the same. 

I need to look at him again. My mouth is open now, grappling for some kind of response. He shakes his head before amending the statement. “No, I  _ hoped _ you would. I started to think that you wouldn’t,” his words are carried on a threadbare laugh. 

_ Hope _ ? He’d hoped?

Letting out a heavy breath, my mind goes blank. I look as awkward as I feel but I’m not sure how to construct on this. “It’s just you left your address.” Licking my lips there’s a pause as words arrange themselves. “I didn’t know why or when—I didn’t know if it would be good to remind you.” Nodding to myself, I stare at his toes, buying my own unrequited justification. His shoes are brown leather, polished— _ smart _ . He’s staring at my face, that’s why my eyes are down. Is he picking out the differences, too? My gaze darts to the end of the road, to the corner, eager for escape. 

Disappointment works both ways.

“You wanna come in?” 

Swallowing is harder than usual—an action that is often involuntary and I’m finding it difficult. I meet his eyes. “You don’t have to invite me in.”

He shrugs. “That was the point of leaving my address.” Something happens now, something that didn’t happen that night, something that didn’t exist in the world I created for him: he grins. 

He grins and I’m off balance. 

“OK.” 

Fist pushing into his coat pocket he nods. I can hear the sound of his keys before they are glinting in low sunbeams too. “It might be a mess in there.” 

Shaking my head, he walks past me to the door. Instead of a flashpoint of embarrassment, I get goosebumps. This is where I sort out myth from truth. My stomach begins to churn in anticipation. “I’m used to messes,” I muse. 

Glancing over his shoulder, his lips quirk again—he wants to smile or air some quip. Instead, intentions and nature are masked. It would be the perfect place for black humour, considering what we know of each other. And I have a soft spot for black humour. "Makes two of us," he says lightly. The door opens onto a communal hall and I'm on his heels. His apartment entrance is beneath the stairwell that zigzags to the heights of the building, serving all occupants. 

Another twist of his wrist and I'm crossing the threshold. 

I'm in his world. 

Isak does that dance that people do when someone turns up unannounced: bobbing and weaving, picking up this item and that, before an armful of clothes and a towel is chucked over an armchair. The armchair sits by a window, on its own. Three low shelves are filled with books; a reading nook. I hadn’t imagined that but it ignites delight. Perhaps the unknown isn’t so terrifying. The mix of books on the shelves suggests it’s both used alone and with a child sat on his lap. 

The space is open plan. It curves one way where I can see the kitchen, the other leads to an area with a screen divider, a double bed peaks from behind and a set of french doors beyond lead to a lush green carpet of grass. Golden light spills onto what I can see of the bed—sheets crisp and white. There’s a room, door ajar, filled with colour and a puzzle-piece rug. There’s a plaque on that door that reads: Emmie. 

“You want something to drink?” he asks, head in the fridge as he transfers whatever was in the bag beside the bread. I didn’t think to take notes—not that I should. 

At first, my answer is a noise that means nothing except that I’m trying to figure out the correct way to respond. Do I want to stay? “Are you having one?” The fridge door is still open, his gaze darts to me. He looks amused or perhaps bewildered. I don’t blame him, I’ve long since passed the point of being able to pretend I’m comfortable around people. 

“I am.” His hand darts back inside, pulling something free, before he’s striding towards the kitchen bench. “It’s just sparkling grape juice. But if you want a hot drink that’s no problem.” The bottle is set down with two tall tumblers to accompany it. His eyes are on me again. “I’d really love it if you’d join me—sit,” he nods at the chairs.

Stance-wise, I no doubt look as uncomfortable as I sound. I haven’t moved from the most central spot in the room, hands still in my pockets in case I accidentally touch something. “OK.” Unsure what else there is to say, with this stranger who has seen me at my darkest. I think that I’m supposed to stay. The floorboards whisper with my advance. He doesn’t sit when I do, instead, he busies himself. It’s quite something to watch. A large blue plate is brought down from a cupboard, bagels are sliced and grilling, cold cuts and cheese appear...

“I haven’t eaten anything yet,” he says, in way of an explanation, yet the plate is put between us—once the warm bagels are ready. Then he sits, spreading cream cheese on one, before placing the knife with its hilt towards me. He’s trying to make me feel comfortable and I don’t know how to feel about that. 

Small talk is something that evades me, even now. “Why did you leave your address?” 

His hand was almost to his mouth, lips open for a bite that is for a moment postponed. A soft laugh rushes from his nose, the pink in his cheeks is darker. Isak shakes his head. “I don’t—” he sighs before changing course. “Probably the same reason you came.” And with the words, he looks into me. I would bet a lot of money on that  _ not  _ being true, and I intend to say that, but my tongue is tied. 

“I don’t know why I came.” It’s an absolute lie.

He shrugs. “I guess I don’t know why I left my address.” No sooner are the words out of his mouth, Isak frowns at himself. “No. That’s not… I wanted to know how you are. I think about you every day.” His eyes never relinquish their hold on me, there is no shame in what he says. 

Apparently he’s more honest with himself than I can be.

Apparently he’s right, too. 

Looking over my shoulder to where the exit is, my chest has become a prison for air. 

“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to, Even.” It’s not unfriendly, simply an offer. 

I'm in amber again. It gives me the clarity to at least see my wants clearly. Then I turn back. "I don't want to go. I'm just…" Trailing to a premature close, I watch as he takes a bite, nodding like he understands already. I'm sure he doesn't but he's trying to ease me, again. "I feel different, after. And I'm worried the thing that made me different is all in my head." 

Isak pauses, looking unphased as he wipes his hand on a tea towel. He picks up his drink—both glasses have been filled. "It wasn't," he muses as if it's nothing. 

There's no stopping the air that rushes from my lungs. His certainty calls for my muscles to unknot from the tangles they've twisted over the last three thousand, two hundred and twenty-four hours. "How can you be so sure?"

And he fucking shrugs. "Because I feel different, too. If we both feel like that…" He leaves the rest unsaid, obviously not one for coincidences—and neither am I. 

Wetting my lips, truths begin to storm the gate. "You look different." 

Isak glances away, another snort of laughter breaks from him. I'm blunt and there's nothing I can do about that, so I don't try anymore. "So do you. We were in our own worst nightmares the last time we were together." 

_ Were _ . 

So it is past tense for him. That thought aside, I'm raking my fingers through my hair before it can be helped. How do I look different? And why do I want to know? "Do you regret it?" Too many questions have been stockpiled since that scrap of paper found its way into my pocket, and I can't stop them from coming. "Us meeting," I clarify. 

The question is considered carefully. If he says  _ yes _ , it means he wishes the world had stopped. That thought is a constant torment. I don't want to be a reason for his regret. He shakes his head slowly. "No. It was hard, facing the world. But I know this was the right thing. The week after we met I found this place and a job, then Emmie drew her first finger painting—me and her," he smiles softly before refocusing. "Emmie is my daughter." 

"I figured," I say. There's a strange sensation that takes control. I'm smiling, too. 

He rolls his eyes, grunting but amused. "Could have been my dog." 

"You have a dog?" 

"No, but you don't know that." 

"Dogs don't have fingers." 

And he's laughing—genuinely laughing. I'm not sure what I did or when I last made someone laugh. 

Isak holds up a pale palm—a white flag. "Alright, smartass." His throat is cleared as our conversation is reassessed. Thoughtfulness descends. "I worried that you might regret it, too. I checked—" he shakes his head, taking a sip of his drink before carrying on. I mirror him. The drink is cool and sharp. "I checked the news a lot. In case you decided to do it." 

He did? An adequate response to that evades me. "Like I said, it's different." 

"How?" The question is fired back without pause. He feels the room to be as blunt as I am, that's rare nowadays. People walk on eggshells within a one-mile radius. 

Sighing, the words begin to arrange themselves as my finger prods at a slice of cheese. "When I went back I didn't stay for the bare minimum time. I wasn’t trying to mask—you know, act the way people want you to act. I hadn't even realised that was what I  _ had  _ been doing until then. I stayed there a month more than was necessary, just wanting to understand myself better— _ know _ myself. Does that make sense?" 

He nods, preoccupied with his bagel. "It does." 

Is he just saying that? Our situations are vastly different but he's been masking, too. Has he been reflecting? "I know there will be times where I’ll regret not doing it. But even then I don’t think I could believe it—not fully. If I hadn't been there then, at that exact time, you wouldn’t be here." My gesture takes in the flat; his small and perfectly formed home. "Not that I want to take credit for—" I stop because he waves the egotistical concerns away. 

"I'm glad you're here, too. If that says I have a saviour complex then so be it. But it's good to see you." 

Back then, on the bridge, I thought he was unique. The one-word question he asked before we left I’ll never forget:  _ Together? _ I still can’t get my head around someone willing to sacrifice themselves that way, I don’t think I ever will. He saw my pain and understood it, he didn’t try to reason me out of it. Does he even realise how much that meant? And he remains as understanding as ever and utterly unphased by my presence, questions, and atypical disposition. 

And it’s  _ that _ which enables the comfort that’s been absent for years. 

It makes me brave, too. 

“I… made a world for you, since that day. When I was bored I would imagine what you were doing, and how things had changed for you. That might sound crazy but it kept me from…” What? People already think I’m insane. Do I need to spell out my coping mechanisms, too? “Kept me occupied. If in that world you were fine, somehow that made me feel good.”

His actions are slow as I speak but he doesn’t look creeped out by the confession. I never even told my therapist about that because it’s too private. I could tell her about the many ways I envisioned killing or harming myself, and the drastic and intrusive thoughts, but for whatever reason that sanctuary was off-limits. 

“I’m glad I helped, somehow. I’ve felt pretty helpless since if I’m honest. The little I could do was turn up where I dropped you off and leave my address—once I’d moved here. They said I couldn’t talk to you or give me any details.” He’s onto his second bagel, and I’m holding a wedge of cheese with a bite taken out of it. I’m eating?

“You wanted to help me still?” 

There’s another shrug it accompanies a sigh. “It’s not so altruistic as it sounds. I feel connected to you, then and now. I want to see you, and I’m not sure why.” There’s a pause. And I don’t know what to say. That was more than I bargained for. The bravery I felt is now with him. “Have you ever seen Final Destination?”

Shaking my head, I feel the marks my smile make again. “There are more than one of those movies and they’re all fucking bad.”

Another eye-roll and I like it. “Never mind that. The premise: there’s no escaping the fate of death, right?” I nod, not entirely sure where he’s taking this. “I came to the conclusion that we were supposed to meet at some point but missed each other, for whatever reason. And even when we were right at the end, on the edge, life wasn’t about to let us off what was written in our contract. No escaping the fate of life, so to speak.” 

Now there’s a slice of salami in my hand, I consider it like a puzzle while processing his theory. “I can go with that. So we were supposed to meet?” 

He hums a  _ yes  _ as he drinks. “That’s what I figured anyway.”

“Why?”

He stills at the question but doesn’t withhold his hypothesis. “Maybe we were supposed to save each other a long time ago—we were overdue. Or maybe I smoked too much weed in college.” 

His grin makes the earth unstable. 

Vulnerability drapes itself over my shoulders, I’m unsure if it's safe to wear. Isak is still a stranger, even if we do share this intimate secret. “Did you meet someone? Romantically?” 

For the first time since appearing on the doorstep, I shock him. He chokes on whatever it was that went down the wrong way. “Jesus—no.” He takes a breath, regrouping from the reaction that, to me at least, seems odd. “No,” he repeats, calmer now. “I don’t trust myself to be truthful. I've never had an honest relationship and I don’t know where to start. I don’t even know how I would find someone to… you know,  _ do _ what you’re supposed to  _ do _ in a relationship—not lie or creep around. I’ve done enough of both to last a lifetime.” 

I’m nodding along to his words. It makes sense, his reaction. It brings new questions to mind but there is one thing I want to add. “It’s just I imagined you had—I  _ hoped _ that you had. It would be nice.” He’s blushing. I don’t know what to do with that information, or what to make of it. 

“Thank you, I guess,” he snickers. "Sorry I didn't live up to the Isak in your head. But I'm not dead yet, so there's time." 

That wasn't the reaction I intended. "No, it's not… not a  _ bad _ thing. Just  _ a  _ thing. I guess I wanted you to be happy, in my head. I suppose that was an easy thing to add. It's stupid anyway." 

He's shaking his head vehemently. "It’s not stupid. It’s...  _ nice _ , actually." He tapers off. Thoughtfulness returns. Staying quiet, I want the notions to take root, hear the questions sprout. "And what about you? How has it been since?" 

That's a good line of enquiry inevitably leading to loaded answers. How much does he want to know? "Its always hard— _ after _ . I don’t get to go back to the spot before the fuck up, I'm way back behind the start line; staying with my parents.  _ That  _ never helps. And not cos they aren't great. It's just—" How do I explain that sensation? 

"Everything you worked for is gone?" 

" _ Yes _ . Every time. All of it is scraped into the bin and I'm back in the same room I was having downers in when I was fifteen and seventeen and twenty and…" Exasperation comes out of my body in a long sigh. "You get the picture." 

"I can only imagine, but I get it." And he's not just nodding along, lying that he understands, he's empathising. 

“I’ve made some progress though. I got an apprenticeship, over a month in now. I should have enough money to put a deposit on a place of my own soon. My mum wants to help but I told her no. I can do this on my own.” 

For a moment it looked as though Isak intended to say something but stalled on the last statement. Usually, I lack the curiosity to guess what people are thinking or what they want to say, but with him it's different. I can't predict him. That’s novel.

"What's the apprenticeship?" 

"It’s with an interior design place—independent. I didn't finish college but they're willing to take me on by the work I’ve done elsewhere. Said I was promising." A stilted laugh punctuates the words. I disagree entirely but, naturally, I didn't argue that point with them. 

"If they're independent they won’t take chances on just anyone." It seems it's my turn to roll my eyes but I don't have the opportunity to show my half-assed ire at his lame attempts to pander, because he gets up from the table, turning from me. He gives no fucks about arguing the point or convincing his captive audience of one; it’s simply a fact that he won’t debate upon. I don’t know if I like that or not. "Tea?" he asks over his shoulder. 

"Sure." 

"I don’t drink anymore otherwise I'd offer a beer." 

"I don't drink either." 

The kettle is put on the stove before he returns. "Oh?" His eyebrows raise, the question inflected with that expression alone.

"Not good for the meds. In fact, if you see me drinking or smoking it's a pretty big red flag." The presumptions that we will stay connected from this point onwards exposes me and my vulnerability in a crimson as bright as my hypothetical flags. I’m cringing behind the stone wall that my face becomes. 

I  _ want _ that—our connection. 

More importantly, I  _ know _ I want that. 

Yet this might be a one-time check-in for Isak. It would be best to drop expectation and become forthright. Usually, that’s not hard to do but here I find myself hesitating as he continues to eat, the gentle hiss of the kettle serves as a filler. "I took so long to come because I thought maybe you would’ve changed your mind since you left the note. I didn’t want to bring up bad memories." That was a round-the-houses way to address this, but it was the safest path.

"It’s not a bad memory," he mumbles absentmindedly around his mouthful. 

"I came twice before today but never rang the buzzer." 

"So it’s a good thing I caught you then." His reply doesn’t miss a beat and I'm not sure if there’s anything I could say that would shock him at this point—apart from bringing up his love life.  _ I'm _ the one trying to find my feet. "But in a way, I'm glad you waited, or that it took so long to collide. I feel good that I'm whole now—or at least on the way to being OK." 

"Do you think that would matter to me?" 

He shakes his head. "Not for you. It matters to me I guess. I don’t want to disappoint you, or for your efforts to be wasted on a hopeless idiot." And he’s up again, headed towards the kettle, fetching cups and a box of chamomile tea.

_ He  _ didn't want to disappoint  _ me? _ "I'm not disappointed," I say softly. 

Isak’s motions falter for a heartbeat before he’s back to fluidity. When he sits again, he runs a hand through his hair. Then his eyes are on me. “That makes two of us.”

The sigh that leaves me is a force of its own. I feel lighter. This isn’t as hard as it is with everyone else. I should tell him that— 

Vibrations emanate from my pocket, halting those intentions. I already know who it is because no one else texts me—or calls for that matter. Isak stays quiet, pouring the tea. Was he aware that words died in my mouth, too? “It’s my mum. I have to go. She worries about...” Nothing? Everything? Neither feels particularly fair or accurate considering what she’s been through. “She just worries and I said I wouldn’t be out long.”

There’s no visible relief nor any attempts to persuade; he’s either trying to be as neutral as I am or he is just a fair and nice human. But he is moving—again. There’s a thermos flask in one hand and Tupperware in the other before I’ve blinked. “You didn’t touch the tea and it looks like you haven’t finished,” he says in way of explanation. Before I can protest, my tea is in the flask and the bagel that I had stacked and eaten half of—apparently—is underneath his hands while he presses the lid firmly shut.

“You don’t have—”

“ _ I know _ . I want to.” And he smiles. I think his smile is nicer than his grin, but that’s like comparing apples to oranges. “But, erm…” he hesitates, cheeks pink once more. “You’ll have to bring them back.” He nods to the food and drink now placed in the same blue tote he’d used earlier. “It’s my favourite thermos.”

In the absence of knowing what to say to that—when I want to clarify whether that means he wants me to come back, and if so when—I grab the bag knowing I don’t seem particularly grateful. The truth is the polar opposite. Feet shuffling in the direction of the exit, I’m still grappling for words. “Thanks. I will.” I can always clean them and leave them on the doorstep… 

“You know which bus to get? Down the road, on the left. The number twelve,” he says, following in my footsteps. 

The number twelve. And he lives at number twelve. Number twelve Sommerfield Place that the number twelve bus runs to. And there are twelve stops between here and the centre of town—the stop I’d get off at if I didn’t walk home. “I know,” I say, voice gruff. Why can’t I be to the point and ask? Why do I give a fuck about being vulnerable?

I’m out the door and in the hall, head down and clouds descending, filled with the frustration massing at my own futility. I need the air and the river, the evening sun...

“ _ Even _ ?” 

...and him. Apparently. 

Amber feels warm and safe. Amber is absolutely terrifying. 

I make myself look back, turn as he tentatively catches up. “Yes?” 

It takes a moment for the words to come. “I know you said you didn’t want help, it’s just—” he licks his lips, coming to a stop, his eyes dart up the stairs, to the roof. “This isn’t really help, just a tip. They’re letting out the fourth floor flat, I think it’s gonna be available in a few weeks.” I know my jaw is open but I’m unsure how to process this. I was looking for shock in him this whole time when it’s been present in me—I’m the one off-balanced, surprised, delighted. This is new. When I fail to give a response he carries on. “It was just a thought—when you said you needed somewhere. It’s not so expensive here because—” Whatever reasons why I’ll never learn because his hands are thrown up in badly concealed frustration. “Anyway, it was a stupid thought.” 

My head is shaking before I know what I’m doing. “It’s not stupid,” I murmur. My lips are numb. “It’s nice.” 

He snorts as I turn his words around on him. “So… do you want the number for the agency?” Eyebrows draw together, he looks to me. The question was painful for him to ask. 

There’s more to it than passing on details.

This is a moment that will end up defining me. “Sure. I’ll check it out.”

Before I’m finished, Isak is on his phone, scrolling contacts. Then his head cocks to one side; his tact changes. Free hand pushing into his trouser pocket and, before my phone is free, he’s holding something towards me. “It’s my card—business card. Jesus, that’s pretentious, but it’s just easier than—just text me. And I’ll send you the details.” His gaze adds a silent  _ please _ .

I reach out to take it from him, relishing the fact that our fingers were almost touching. We touched on the bridge, he held my hand. The sensation of his fingers gripping to mine is a memory so vivid I can still feel it. He’s tattooed into my life and flesh. “I’ll do that.” 

He wants me to contact him. Our connection doesn’t end here. 

Nodding, Isak takes a step back.  _ Now _ he looks relieved, pleased perhaps. “OK. I look forward to it.”

I’m successful this time at procuring a response when it seems impossible. I may appear absent at times, but I recall every word. I can make my attentiveness clear; show every sentence was heard and collected—every phrase, every expression. I savoured them. 

“That makes two of us.”


End file.
